


Brownie Batter

by LumosLyra



Series: Praises, Pleasures & Perfection [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Blow Jobs, F/M, Fantasizing, Hermione is oblivious, Meet-Cute, Pansy Bakes, Suggestive Use of Spoons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:42:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26449486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LumosLyra/pseuds/LumosLyra
Summary: Harry Potter comes home from a rough day to find Pansy Parkinson in his kitchen... licking brownie batter from a spoon.
Relationships: Pansy Parkinson/Harry Potter
Series: Praises, Pleasures & Perfection [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1833745
Comments: 15
Kudos: 116





	Brownie Batter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cecemarty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cecemarty/gifts), [Curly_Kay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Curly_Kay/gifts).



> This fun little gift-fic is set in the Praises, Pleasures, and Perfection universe, but you don't need to read it to follow along. I am so incredibly thankful for both cecemarty and Curly_Kay. Y'all are amazing and I hope you enjoy this silly little bit of smutty fluff.

It had been a long day. 

First, Harry was awoken from a dead sleep by his Auror badge squealing that one of his squad members was down. He barely had time to tug his trousers up and don his Auror robes before he apparated away in a sleep-deprived haze, wand in hand and ready to eviscerate whoever had wounded one of his own. 

When he landed in the office, eyes blazing in fury he found that fucking Thomas was barely scratched and it turned out that one of Longbottom’s spells ricocheted and hit Thomas’ badge dead on when they were dueling in the training arena. They were lucky they were both in one-piece by the time Harry, Malfoy, and Patil finished screaming at them. Malfoy’s shirt was covered in lipstick from what was obviously an interrupted amorous engagement and Patil’s hair crackled with magic in her irritation as she berated the pair of them for being utter imbeciles. 

Harry didn’t miss the way Thomas’s face contorted into some sappy smile while Longbottom visibly recoiled from her onslaught. Harry couldn’t be bothered to fill out the form that would trigger an investigation into whatever was going on with Thomas and Patil, so he brushed it off as something he imagined while sleep deprived. 

And if that weren’t enough, his secretary managed to somehow vanish three very important reports in her piss-poor attempt at filing, so he spent the rest of the time he could have been sleeping comforting his sobbing secretary and re-writing the now-vanished reports. 

She made up for it slightly by making the trek into Muggle London and returning with a piping hot venti caramel macchiato with extra whip and double caramel drizzle. 

Stupid Malfoy and his additctive posh coffee. 

He was pulled away from reports because Robards needed him to question a subject in holding at Azkaban. It was raining on the island and since the brilliant designer of the fortress positioned the apparition point out at sea, Harry’s clothing was soaked through by the time he made it into the chilly-damp of the actual prison. 

And soaked through again by the time he left that god-forsaken rock. 

So, when he stumbled home and into the kitchen, half-soaked through and desperate for something to eat that didn’t come from the Ministry cafeteria, the absolute last thing he expected to see was Pansy Parkinson licking what he assumed to be brownie batter off of a spoon and making a noise that went straight to his cock. 

Their eyes met and she grinned— _ grinned _ at him and he turned on his heels and marched straight upstairs and into the library where he found Hermione curled up in one of her favourite armchairs by the window. 

“What is Pansy Parkinson doing in our kitchen?” 

The book she was reading dropped into her lap and her eyes went wide as she took in his appearance. “What happened to you? You’re soaked through and smell like…” She sniffed the air, nose wrinkling at the likely putrid smell clinging to his robes. “... Gods. You were at Azkaban today, weren’t you?” 

He made to flop onto the leather sofa but a quickly fired spell from Hermione prevented him from doing so. “No! Don’t. You smell like death and damp and I’m rather fond of this room.” 

Harry groaned, back arched in the air as he threw his head back before Hermione gently maneuvered him with the invisible force until he was upright again and his eyes faced the ceiling. “I hate that you’re right.” 

“I’m always right.” 

“That doesn’t explain what the fuck Pansy Parkinson is doing in our kitchen.” 

He and Hermione had been roommates for two years now and not once had he ever known her to be friends with that particular witch. Daphne Greengrass, certainly. They had bonded over some obscure love of ancient runes during everyone’s mandatory eighth year at the same time he and Malfoy had somehow managed to set aside their differences and tolerate one another. But, Pansy Parkinson was new. 

“Oh! Yes. Her oven needs repair.” 

That did very little to clarify exactly  _ why _ the one witch who had deftly avoided him their entire eighth year was in his kitchen. His head tilted until he could look at her through his peripheral vision as his hand rubbed at his stubbled cheek. “And she is here because ours is not in need of repair?” 

“Well, Daphne doesn’t have a muggle oven, so she had to come somewhere.” For being the Brightest Witch of the Age, Hermione was certainly daft at times. 

“So you volunteered Grimmauld?” 

“She’s downstairs, is she not?” Hermione’s brows raised and she tugged her hair into a haphazard bun, securing it with her wand. “Isn’t it obvious?” 

Harry groaned and ran a hand roughly over his face, pushing his glasses into his hair and then pinching his brow. “You’ve never even mentioned her before.” 

Hermione closed her book, leaving her finger in between the pages presumably to keep her place. “Oh, well it’s rather new. We get along quite well, you know.”

He was grasping at straws, trying to figure out how Hermione had come to be acquainted with the witch in question. “Through Greengrass?”

“Draco, actually. I had brunch with him the other day since Daphne was running about helping to sort out Astoria’s wedding, and Pansy happened to drop by. We’ve gotten coffee a few times and once we helped Daph with a cake tasting.”

“Can Astoria not taste her own cake?” Who wouldn’t want to taste their own wedding cake before their wedding? Perhaps it was because he had been denied sweets as a child that he had a horrible sweet tooth, but the mere thought seemed absurd.

Hermione waved him off. “Something about needing to lose three pounds to fit into her wedding dress, which is ridiculous because she could wear a paper sack and look amazing. I’d kill for her bust to hip ratio.” 

“Is she going to be gone any time soon?” 

Her brows narrowed as if she were confused. “I mean, Astoria and Ronald are moving to Bulgaria so he can play Quidditch, so I expect they’ll leave after the wedding.” 

“Not Astoria. Parkinson.” 

Hermione glanced at the large grandfather clock in the corner, surveying the time before turning her gaze back on Harry. “I expect she’ll leave when she’s done baking.” 

Harry groaned. He was exhausted, in desperate need of a shower, and might very well starve to death if he didn’t get something to eat. “It was tuna salad and vinegar chips in the mess today.” He knew he sounded pitiful when the words came out of his mouth, but he hoped Hermione would understand why exactly he was miffed about finding someone baking in his kitchen.

Her eyes lit up and he knew she got the point. “Oh. Go shower, I’ll see what I can scrounge up.” 

“You’re an angel. Thank you.” Normally, he would’ve hugged her but given how he knew he smelled, he settled for a smile and a wave before he turned from the room and walked up another flight of stairs to his room. A flick of his wand set the shower to on and the adjacent bathroom was soon filled with steam as he peeled his damp robes, uniform, and underclothes from his skin. 

Stepping into the shower and letting the hot water wash over his body was like a balm to a wound. All of the stress from his day washed down the drain and as he felt each muscle release beneath the stream. A vision of Pansy’s tongue drawing long, slow strokes over the silver mixing spoon filled his mind and his hand curled around his cock. Her reddened lips were rounded slightly, pink tongue darting out to catch a drip of brownie batter as it trailed down the spoon with the tip, her bright blue eyes filled with―”

Harry’s eyes flew open and his hand recoiled, his painfully hard cock bobbing at the forceful release. “What the fuck…” 

Pansy Parkinson was the last witch he should be fantasizing about. They had history. He’d never liked her in school and Merlin knew she’d tried to give him up to the Dark Lord the day of the final battle. She’d spent the entirety of eighth year avoiding him and now she had suddenly materialized in his kitchen, grinning like a cheshire cat while baking brownies. 

It was absurd. 

His hands spread over the tiles in front of him as he braced himself, leaning fully into the stream of hot water until rivulets ran through his hair, down his face, and over his body. His eyes closed and he was immediately met with a vision of Pansy on her knees, pretty pink tongue curling around his cock, small hand wrapped around his length as she took him into her mouth. 

Harry groaned and he gave in to the fantasy, too tired to fight it. His head came to rest against his forearm and his hand gripped his cock, drawing slow strokes in time with the way the fantasy in his head took him into her mouth. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes were bright, hair slicked and wet from the shower as she hollowed her cheeks, and it was almost as if he could feel the pressure increase on the glans. Harry moaned, passing his thumb over the head of his cock and sliding his palm along the length, each finger pressing into the thick flesh of him. 

The vision of Pansy in his mind took him deep until he felt the slick warmth of her throat, her tongue drawing slow circles over the underside, before pulling back to gasp a breath until her lips parted once more and she took him into her mouth again. 

It ended too quickly for Harry’s liking as warm spurts of come splattered against the wall of the shower with her name on his lips. It was foolish, fantasizing about a witch he hadn’t seen in years, but he didn’t care. All he wanted was to eat whatever Hermione could find that wasn’t tuna salad and fall into bed.

He pushed the lingering doubt in his mind away and focused on lathering his body and hair with soap until he was certain he’d washed away all traces of the fantasy in his mind.

He flicked the water off and wrapped his body in a towel, drying himself with the soft fabric before draping it around his waist. He found his glasses on the counter and put them on, thankful for the anti-fog spell he’d placed on them when he replaced his last set, and ran his fingers through his damp hair. 

The bathroom door opened and he stepped into the hall, stumbling backward into the door frame when he came face to face with Pansy Parkinson. She was shorter than him with a rounded face, turned up nose, gentle curves, and dark hair cropped just above her shoulders. 

Her eyes dragged over his body in what he couldn’t mistake for anything but appreciation. 

“Well hello there, Potter. I knew Aurors were fit but…” She trailed off, biting her lip as she held out a plate to him. It was steaming with freshly roasted vegetables, a generous helping of roast and gravy and what looked like freshly baked yeast rolls. 

The sight made his mouth water, but he didn’t know if it was the food or the witch. 

His eyes flicked from the plate to Pansy, hand desperately grasping the towel at his waist bidding it to stay up for Merlin’s sake. His mouth opened and closed, trying to find some kind of words that were lost somewhere in the recesses of his mind because there was flour on her cheek and handprint on the black apron she wore over pastel coloured robes that was suggestively closer to the apex of her thighs. 

And the vision of fantasy Pansy on her knees came barreling back to the forefront of his mind and as absurd as it was, he wanted to knock the plate of food out of her hand and see whether or not she tasted like brownie batter. 

Her cheeks turned pink in the awkward silence that stretched between them and she glanced down at the plate of food. “Granger said it was tuna day at the Ministry and I know how much Draco loathes that and I assumed you might as well, and I was already cooking anyway, but you knew that… because you saw me, and well…” 

“Thank you,” he said, forcing his eyes to her face as he took the plate of food from her hand with the hand not holding up the towel around his waist. “Really, this is… this is great. Much more than the ham and cheese I expected from Hermione.” 

Pansy smiled, her eyes nervously flicking over his face. “She’s really not a great cook. She manages, but she could use a few lessons.” 

He nodded, “Yeah. Um. Well, thanks again. I’ll just―” He pushed off of the door frame, back straightening as he tried to sidestep Pansy, who evidently had the same idea, the pair of them laughing and both in each other's way.

Pansy tucked herself against the wall, a sheepish smile on her face as she pushed a lock of dark hair behind her ear. “I’ll see you around, Potter.” 

“See you, Pansy.” 


End file.
